


No Ports in This Storm

by misura



Category: Dickensian (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-16 00:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13042731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: Arthur gets in over his head.





	No Ports in This Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MildredMost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildredMost/gifts).



Arthur's the one to stupidly start it - because he's an idiot, because it's been ages, because he (wrongly, as it turns out) thinks that here is a means to regain some control over his circumstances, however fleetingly. He forgets (he keeps forgetting) that Meriwether Compeyson is not like most people.

He wonders how many wrongs in his life might have been prevented if not for that one fatal moment during which one action or another suggested itself to him as a good idea.

It's not a bad kiss, as these things go. Somehow, that makes things worse.

Arthur meant for this to be a lesson, a reminder that while Compeyson might hold a certain power over him in knowing Arthur's deep, dark secret, that doesn't mean Arthur isn't still in charge.

The fact that Arthur will avoid making a public spectacle of himself does not mean that he will be as intimidated, as fearful in private, when it's only the two of them. He doesn't intend for anything more than a kiss, if even that. The way the scene played out in his head is a simple reversal of what happened earlier, with Compeyson being the one to recoil and Arthur the one to smile smugly.

Instead, Compeyson pushes forwards, until Arthur's back is against the wall and even then, he doesn't stop. There are hands, wandering, and they're not Arthur's. It's all completely wrong.

"Stop," Arthur says, the moment Compeyson gives him an opening. (Does the man not breathe?) "Stop. Please." He hates how needy he sounds, how weak and pathetic.

What father could take pride in a son who sounds like that? What father would not prefer anyone else, even a daughter, over such a son?

"Why, Arthur. You surprise me." Compeyson smiles. "You started this, you know. And now you expect me to believe you don't want me to finish things? Just like that?"

"You're not like this," Arthur says. He's been with boys - young men from the street. He felt dirty, paying them, and after a while, he told himself to be strong, that a Havisham needn't soil himself with such filth. "You don't - you don't like men."

"You mean I'm normal," Compeyson says. "Unlike you."

Arthur swallows. His lips feel swollen. "Yes."

"But we're friends, aren't we?" Compeyson says. "Good friends. And you kissed me. I'm flattered. I mean, thinking of all these other people, all these other _men_ you might have chosen to kiss, and out of all of them, you chose me. You kissed me. Honestly, I _am_ flattered. And deeply honored, it goes without saying."

"Liar," Arthur says, reaching for his anger, his indignation. His hands are trembling.

"Think of it as leverage," Compeyson suggests.

"Leverage," Arthur repeats. He wants to grab Compeyson and kiss him again, be the one to push Compeyson against the wall and leave him panting and saying _'stop, please'_. He wants to hit Compeyson, over and over, until there's nothing left of his face but a bloody pulp.

"Who knows." Compeyson leans forward. His breath is hot on Arthur's ear. "Perhaps I'll enjoy it so much that you'll convert me. Turn me into someone like you. Would you like that?"

Arthur shivers. "That's not - things like that don't happen." Things like this aren't supposed to happen either. He's a Havisham; he's not supposed to let himself get pressed up against a wall by a nobody, to let himself get intimidated by a mere peasant.

"No? Well, you're the expert. I'll take your word for it," Compeyson says.

"Good," Arthur says. "You can let go of me now, you know. I get the point."

"The point." Compeyson grins. "Do enlighten me. You kissed me, I kindly responded in kind, you chickened out, and now you mean to tell me that there was a point?"

"It was stupid." Arthur turns his head. His eyes burn. Every time, _every time_ he tries going against Compeyson, tries to right some wrong done him, his plans and actions come to nothing. It's as if he cannot do anything right, see anything through properly. "Now go away."

"What if I don't?" Compeyson asks. "What will you do? Kiss me again? I admit I didn't particularly enjoy myself but it was hardly such a harrowing experience that the thought of being made to go through it once again frightens me."

"Go away. Must I repeat myself?" Left alone, Arthur knows that he will be able to make sense of this, to bring his body back under control.

"It seems you already have." Compeyson chuckles, which is vexing, and then he presses his lips against Arthur's again, as if it's nothing.

Perhaps, to someone like Compeyson, it _is_ nothing. Arthur wishes he could claim likewise, that his breeding has left him freed from the baser physical urges that characterize the lower classes. Instead, his legs feel like they might have given way, had Compeyson not used his superior strength and greater weight to keep him in place and upright.

"Are you quite sure you've never done this before?" Arthur asks, desperately casting about for a weapon of any kind. "Perhaps someone offered you a bit of money if you agreed to let them have you?"

"And how much, dear Havisham, would you offer me to have you?" Compeyson returns, his expression as coolly composed as Arthur has ever seen it. "Or not to have you? Is that your preference? It's so hard to keep track sometimes."

For a moment, Arthur is genuinely tempted. He might get his hands on some cash, still; he's always managed before, after all. It would irrevocably change things - for the better, that is. A lesson, bought cheap at any price, to teach Compeyson that there is a natural order to things, that no matter what Compeyson may do or say or think, Arthur will always be his better.

He wonders how much money would convince Compeyson to let Arthur do whatever he wished to him. Arthur knows there's a number. With people like Compeyson, there always is.

Then, belatedly, the exact words of Compeyson's mocking offer register and Arthur feels himself flush.

"I am not to be had. At any price. How dare you."

"How, indeed," Compeyson says. "A mystery for the ages."

Arthur trembles. "Unhand me."

"Oh, I think you need to be restrained, Arthur. For your own good. Consider your behavior. Going around kissing people you know full well you have no business kissing - why, you're a positive menace. I must consider your good name, you reputation. Besides, if I close my eyes, you might as easily be a woman. You're certainly soft enough." Compeyson licks his lips. "Softer, even. Your upbringing, perhaps. As your friend, I feel I must protect you from yourself."

"And how do you propose to do that? By molesting me against my will?" Arthur intends for his voice to sound sarcastic, jeering. Compeyson is too close, though, too unpredictable. Arthur tells himself that Compeyson would never - that he _needs_ Arthur, but the truth is that he doesn't know anymore what Compeyson may or may not do at any given time.

"Now there's an interesting idea. Do you think me capable? Perhaps if I thought of your sister. She's attractive enough, don't you think? Quite a lovely woman, Amelia. Tell me, do you think she's still a virgin?"

For one moment of blinding anger, Arthur wishes his sister dead and gone. Then reason reasserts itself. Compeyson will never touch Amelia. Seduce her, yes, that is the plan. It will go no further than some pretty words, though, some semblance of sweet-talking to turn her head.

Amelia will never get to know Compeyson as Arthur knows him. She will only get to know a faerietale, a fantasy. An illusion of a man who never existed.

"Such an expression on your face. Do tell me, was it something I said?"

"You have not yet unhanded me," Arthur says. "I strongly urge you to do so now. The sooner you do, the sooner we can put this incident behind us. We both know that your threat is only that. A threat. Empty."

"Mm." Compeyson's hands work at the cuffs of Arthur's shirt, then move on to the buttons. Arthur allows it to happen, wondering how he can have been so reduced. "Please. Do go on."

"I don't want this," Arthur says. He considers bolting for the door. He might make it outside, he thinks, but then what? If anyone asks, what would he tell them? The truth is impossible. Besides, Compeyson would only deny it, bedazzle people with some story he's made up on the spot.

"Well, good God." Compeyson steps back, like an artisan admiring his handiwork. "Why didn't you say something sooner, man. Go on, then. Leave. I'm hardly going to pursue you into the streets, am I? Think of what people might say, if they saw me. Us."

Arthur feels exposed, bared. Half his shirt buttons are undone, though that's only part of it. Compeyson's always been able to see through him so easily, as if there's not a single thought or hope or dream Arthur can keep from him. "I - "

Compeyson sighs. "Arthur. Dear Arthur. Let me do this for you. As a friend, hm? I can't promise you that I'll be any good, but for you, I'll do my very best. Can't make it fairer than that, can I?"

"You shouldn't even touch me," Arthur says. "I'm a Havisham. And you - you're nobody. Nobody."

"Hush," Compeyson says, pulling him closer, away from the wall, towards the bed. "Hush now. There's a good Havisham."

Arthur decides to try kissing him again. Why not? It's hardly as if he's got anything to lose.

(More fool he, of course. He wonders if he's ever going to learn to stop making such mistakes, if the world will ever grant him all these things he deserves, rather than withholding them from him time and again, letting him have only those things he does not want.)


End file.
